


Camp

by HorseCrazyWriter76



Series: NaNoWriMo November 2019 [4]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping/hostage, Nightmares(non-graphic), War(non-graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorseCrazyWriter76/pseuds/HorseCrazyWriter76
Summary: Trust me. If I'm threatening you, you'll have a barrel to look down. Until then, I'm just making conversation.Prompt: https://oopsprompts.tumblr.com/post/187866821410/trust-me-if-im-threatening-you-youll-have-a
Series: NaNoWriMo November 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541089
Kudos: 28





	Camp

Logan was in a...strange place, at the current moment. The world had long since divided between ‘light’ and ‘dark’, and the war struggled on. He wasn’t quite sure anyone really knew  _ why  _ they were fighting rather than simply debating anymore, but they fought anyway.

Well, everyone except for him.

See, he prided himself on being a calm, rational person capable of making his own decisions based on information. He was well versed in this issue, and he had long since drawn his own conclusion.

He didn’t care.

There were things he agreed with on both sides and things he disagreed with on both sides, so he had staunchly avoided taking a side and called himself crepuscular. It had taken him a long time to decide on that name, too. He had considered sunrise, dawn, sunset, and dusk, all of which he rejected because that implied he thought one would win, and he saw no obvious win. He had considered color names, which he rejected because it implied he was creating a new side and some colors were lighter than others.

Perhaps bound in the back of a van was an odd place to be thinking of these things, but he didn’t have anything better to think about. He was very aware of the sheer amount of dark-aligned people there were around him, and he had no intentions of attempting escape. The van skidded to a stop, throwing Logan roughly against the edge of his restraints. He felt hands untying him, then rebinding his wrists. It seemed a bit stupid to Logan, but he mentally shrugged the comments away, as he was hauled to his feet.

“I hope you are aware that I am able to walk,” he commented, flexing his feet as he felt the toes of his beat-up old sneakers bounce across the ground.

“And risk you running? No chance, sweetie,” someone out of his sight answered him.

“I would have to be suicidal or incredibly stupid to attempt retreating to a conflict zone from here.”

“Why would you retreat to a conflict zone?”

“I need new sneakers, and all the stores are raided as soon as the conflict ends,” Logan replied simply. The person didn’t reply to him, so he simply allowed himself to be carried through what looked like a temporary camp. He looked around idly at the tents and caught the eye of a small child, who immediately ran behind the leg of their mother. He was deposited in a tent with nothing adorning the inside. The smell of blood and sweat rose around him. It made him slightly anxious, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. He was not their enemy.

He looked up as a thin adult, around the same age as him, entered the tent.

“Good afternoon,” Logan said pleasantly, nodding to the person, “I would shake your hand, but it appears those who found me would rather I didn’t complete freedom of movement of my hands rather than take away my knives,” he shook out his sleeves and the sheathed knives fell easily to the floor. 

“More training is in order.”

“I suppose so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Logan Berry.”

“Mr. Berry, you are currently in the largest dark-aligned camp in existence.”

“Are you threatening me?”

The person let out a harsh laugh that reminded Logan more of a vulture’s cry than of a laugh, “Trust me, if I’m threatening you, you’ll have a barrel to look down. Until then, I’m just making conversation.”

“Well, then, may I ask you name?”

“Anxiety. Let’s get past the obvious question: how are you aligned?”

“I consider myself crepuscular.”

“Crepus-what does that mean?” Anxiety asked, seeming taken aback by his answer.

“It is an adjective describing something relating to the time between night and day or an animal active during dawn and dusk.”

“Who’s side are you on?”

“My own.”

“Light or dark.”

“Or.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“Have you ever been inside a light-aligned camp?”

“When I was 15 I was captured by a group of light-aligned fighters who brought me to the edge of camp and turned their backs on me to argue. It was fairly simple to retreat back to a conflict zone and untie their bonds.”

“Who are your parents?”

“I don’t know their names. They died when I was young and I was taken in by a rebel by the name of Remy Berry.”

“When was your last contact with him?”

“12 years ago.”

Anxiety began to pace slowly, “You’re really not one of them.”

“No.”

Anxiety didn’t pause or acknowledge Logan’s response.

“Would you be willing to pick a side?”

“That depends on a variety of factors,” he replied. His eyes watched the fluid movement as Anxiety drew his gun and pointed it at Logan’s face, the click of the safety coming off resounding around the tent and finger poised on the trigger. Logan tried to pretend his heart rate didn’t spike, but he was fairly certain his face betrayed him.

“Right now I believe the logical thing to do would be to align myself with the dark,” he replied. There was a click as the Anxiety put the safety back on.

The first couple weeks could be described as rough. Logan was essentially a prisoner. It made sense, of course. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t turn around, leave the camp, and give information to the light side. A grim youth with a scar running down half his face who never gave solid answers accompanied him everywhere. 

After a month he was allowed to go to ‘work’, which was folding clean clothes into neat stacks based on the faded names on the tags, alone, although that solitude was dubious, as he was far from the only person assigned to that monotonous task. 

After two months he was given his knives back. After three months he was given work sorting letters to be mailed, although his guard returned to watch his work. After four months the guard disappeared except for at night, when they shared a tent. After five months he was given work recording conflicts for what was essentially a police force. The law enforcement had puzzled Logan at first, but then he realized that this was the largest camp and was more similar to a city than a small community or a military organization. In fact, most of the camp seemed to be families. He had given some thought to the idea of running away, but he had grown used to the routine and ease of life in the camp now. After six months he was called in by Anxiety.

“Logan Berry,” he said as Logan entered.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been here for 6 months.”

“That is correct.”

“You work keeping records for Percy Ink.”

“That is correct,” Logan bit back the instinct to ask what the point of this was. Anxiety was clearly of a high rank, why bother with stating things they already knew?

“Would you work for me?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what?”

“If it were the logical thing to do.”

“Pay raise to go around traveling to different camps recording meetings.”

“I would take the job.”

“Pack your things, we leave tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

It took a long time for anything to change past then. Logan traveled with Anxiety and listened to the meetings. He was mildly interested in the contents of the meetings, although a decent chunk of it flew over his head as they discussed places and strategies he had never heard of before.

Then he was awoken by the sound of crying.

It had been an odd trip so far. It was the two of them and a young guard who spouted repulsing nonsense at random times. They were also heading away from the front lines where Anxiety’s meetings usually took them. Logan shook the information out of his head and grabbed his flashlight. He quickly pinpointed the crying as coming from Anxiety’s tent. He fumbled with the opening to the tent, then climbed out into the chilly air.

“Anxiety, may I come in?” he asked, crouching outside the tent. There was no response from inside. Logan frowned, debating the consequences of action versus inaction, then quickly deciding on action, “I am entering your tent,” he announced, paused a moment to allow for any rebuttal from Anxiety to the action, then, after receiving none, let himself into the tent.

Anxiety was curled up on his side, clutching his pillow like his life depended on it. It seemed he was still asleep, although he was normally a light sleeper

“Anxiety,” Logan said softly, “Anxiety!” he repeated, louder this time, and touching his shoulder. Anxiety snapped awake, blinking at the bright light and tear tracks shining on his face. 

“What are you-What are you doing in my tent?”

“You were crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“You can talk about it.”

“I’m  _ fine.  _ Go back to sleep.”

“Yes,” Logan relented, retreating to his own tent, although he had a feeling, which was quickly proved correct, that it wouldn’t be the last time he would be woken to Anxiety’s cries.


End file.
